my sister’s harley cat has been missing since monday evening. there are coyotes in the neighbourhood. please think a good thought for his safe return home. we all love him and miss him and are very worried.

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i got my first professional hair colour yesterday. i’ve dyed my hair every shade of the rainbow since i was 19, and never before paid someone to do it for me. unfortunately the greys are coming in fast and furious (thanks dad!) and the box stuff just isn’t covering them any more. my one real vanity – i hate looking older than i feel.

i don’t know why i was so nervous, going into the salon. i used to be a lot more adventurous with my hair, changing it on a whim without a care, even after some spectacular disasters (i once had to walk around for a whole day with unintentionally green hair). i’ve had it cropped and platinum, black and bobbed, red and blue striped. for the past few years, though, i’ve stuck pretty solidly to long and red, with a brief bob dalliance in between.

perhaps it’s a side effect of growing older, this newfound hesitance. all through my twenties, my motto was, “it’s only hair, it grows back”. these days it seems i’m less willing to risk having to live with a mistake. i’ve never been timid with my hair before.

which is why, when i got my hair done yesterday, i had this sudden impulse to say “fuck it”. yep, it’s even brighter in person. i love it.

stars – ageless beauty

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(public service announcement: i’m off to the states for two weeks starting tomorrow, so blogging may be light. if i don’t check in between now and then, have a wonderful bank holiday, and see y’all on the other side.)

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“The carcass lay on his path. He stopped, sniffed, stalked round it, brother, nosing closer, went round it, sniffing rapidly like a dog all over the dead dog’s bedraggled fell. Dogskull, dogsniff, eyes on the ground, moves to one great goal. Ah, poor dogsbody. Here lies poor dogsbody’s body.”

from “Ulysses”, james joyce (and no, i haven’t finished it yet)

i hate my job.

i don’t even care if they see this, that’s how much i hate it.

(for my u.s. readers: dogsbody)

spoon – the underdog

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i ran 15 miles last night. i felt invincible, unstoppable. i love the way that running makes me feel proud of what my body can accomplish. i just wish i’d always been able to feel this way.

like a lot of women (probably even most women), i’ve hated my body for much of my life. as a kid i was involved in tons of sports (soccer, ballet, swimming), yet i distinctly remember sitting against the wall in the gym during gymnastics at the age of 9, in my shiny blue leotard, hating that my thighs were thicker than those of the kids sitting to either side of me. it wasn’t just a passing observation – it was a burgeoning feeling of shame. even now, it’s painful to think about that sad little girl who hated her thighs. i wish i could go back to that time and try to protect her from what she would eventually do to herself later on in life, in the name of thinner thighs, as that sense of shame buried itself even deeper, growing like a cancer.

where does that kind of internalised self-loathing come from? certainly not my parents, who always instilled the healthiest of messages. who as medical professionals told us everything we ever wanted to know about our bodies, who brought me up on a steady diet of “free to be you and me”, along with plenty of fresh air, exercise and milk. it didn’t come from being overweight. i put on about 15 extra pounds in my last year of high school, because much of the socialising in my circle of friends revolved around pizza, but that’s the chunkiest i’ve ever been. so i’ve never had an actual weight problem – but that hasn’t kept me from suffering the full spectrum of distorted body image issues.

so i spent much of my teen years being embarrassed to wear shorts, but active eating disorders first reared their ugly head in the autumn of my first year of university, when i became severely depressed. as a side effect of that, i starved myself. i lived on egg whites, dry salad and cheerios, day in, day out, and nobody even questioned it. i often deliberately slept through one or more meals, waking long after the cafeteria had closed, and resorting to the box of cereal and coffeemaker i kept stashed in my room. i would take a small paper cup of granola from the yogurt section, and dissect it in my room for hours, painstakingly sorting through the seeds and berries, making it last until lunch time. i dropped 30 pounds without even trying over the course of 6 months. nobody questioned it. i had friends who were working out for hours a day, measuring their body fat at 3% with a set of calipers, obsessing over meals. in the background of that context, my quiet little disorder went unnoticed. i was miserable for a whole host of reasons, and i was taking it out on myself by depriving my body. mercifully, at the end of the school year the depression lifted, and with it my need to count out saltine crackers for dinner began to evaporate with the black haze that had invaded my brain. the following summer i fell in love, started eating properly again, and the world righted itself for a while. and for a long time, i thought of that experience as an aberration, a blip. the fucked up thinking of a fucked up mind, and something i could safely see receding in the rearview mirror.

but i fell into the disorder trap again, when i least expected it. shortly after completing my last marathon back when i was turning 30, i began purging. and purging, of course, is just a polite way of saying i made myself vomit. it wasn’t even even something i consciously started doing – i remember the first time was almost accidental- but before i knew it i was doing it every day, sometimes several times a day. i would try to wait until my stomach was growling with hunger to eat, then eventually lose control and eat voraciously. i’d feel disgusted with myself for being such a pig, then vomit, then feel even more disgusted with myself for doing that. yet for nearly a year and a half, i couldn’t seem to stop. it’s humiliating to admit that. it was revolting and painful and i hated myself more and more intensely every single time i found myself in front of a toilet bowl. hated what i was doing to myself, hated myself if i didn’t do it. i could almost see myself as an observer might – like an out-of-body experience. i’m convinced there is nothing more deliberately physically punishing or degrading than forcing yourself to vomit, and i am convinced that, had i continued, i would have ended up someplace bad relatively soon. i was scared out of my wits at what was happening to my mind and my body, my inability to end the cycle. i tried, unsuccessfully, to stop every single day. yet the day of my first date with jonno was the last day i ever put a finger down my throat. i think i somehow knew that i couldn’t have a relationship with him if i carried on hurting myself, and that finally flipped a switch in my brain. even now, years later, i consider that a miracle.

those are also two periods of my life that most of my family and friends have never known about. i never told them, and i don’t believe they ever guessed. and i write about them now, not as some sort of shock confessional or catharsis, but because it’s important to recognise just how dangerous and slippery and insidious these issues are. my parents did everything right, and instead of feeling proud and strong within my body, i spent years hating it and wanting to harm it. i am wildly envious of people who’ve always felt comfortable in their own skin, who treat themselves well – with care and respect. and i am sad for all the years i wasted feeling repulsed every time i looked in the mirror. truth be told, it’s something i still struggle with in my head – feeling good about yourself shouldn’t be that hard. running is my reminder that i can be a healthy, happy, and capable being, no matter what i look like.

i have young nieces who will grow up surrounded by messages that equate their self-worth with their looks, and even more directly with their weight. raised in the shadow of media that take more photos of people the skinnier they are. industries that make make millions off of women who torture themselves. i would give absolutely anything to protect them from feeling the way i felt, or falling into the habits i did. the problem is, of course, that you can’t. it can’t be externally imposed. it’s scary to know that you have so little influence or control.

it’s difficult to talk about. if it’s hard for me, how much harder for others?

but going home on the tube one evening, one of the free rags had a 3×3 closeup photo of jennifer lopez’s buttock, and the caption pointed out that even she, one of the world’s most celebrated bodies, had cellulite. i admit to feeling some sense of vindication – joy in photographic evidence that perfection doesn’t exist, and never has. it’s all just an illusion after all, this idea that if we just exercise enough self-abnegation… if we just work out long enough, and eat nothing but cabbage, and whiten our teeth and wax our bikini and wear enough makeup and the right clothes… if only, we too can be perfect. yet i’d still rather live in a world where the myth isn’t perpetrated to begin with – where we don’t have to build “perfect” up, just to savagely tear it down.

a world where little 9 year old girls don’t hate their thighs.

knapsack – less than

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it was just a weekend full of visitors as my friend stacey came through town on sunday. we spent the day hanging out in central london, including a wander through covent garden. i mostly try to avoid any potential tourist areas during the summer, but i’m so glad we threw caution to the wind and went anyway, because it lead to two amazing discoveries.

first, i finally found the cybercandy store. i’ve known of its existence for a while, but never remembered to look up the address when i was planning to be in the area, or managed to find it just by chance. stacey, however, showed me the way, and oh. my. god. if there is such a thing as a candy-induced orgasm, then that’s exactly what i had. they had favourites i hadn’t seen since childhood, candies i wasn’t even sure they made any more. clark bars, chuckles, good-n-plenty, jolly rancher sticks, nik-l-nips, sky bars, pop rocks, and even the incredibly elusive, thoroughly new england moxie. they also had some of my favourites from other countries – like the delicious cherry ripes, violet crumbles, and snifters from australia/new zealand, or the choco-bananas, alterna-kit-kats and pocky that j and i became addicted to during our travels through asia. it was pure, unadulterated, sugar-coated, sticky bliss. i barely made it out of the store with my credit card intact.

the second fabulous discovery of the day was a new mexican restaurant called wahaca. i’d read a review in one of the papers, and knew it was in the covent garden area, but it took ringing stacey’s husband and having him research it online to find the place. and it was soooo worth it.

good mexican food is a rarity on this little island, with the disappointments and “wtf?”s far outweighing the pleasant “mexican” dining experiences to be had. the best one can usually hope for is a reasonable facsimile of something tex-mex-ish and a margarita that at least has lime in it, (i was once served, in all seriousness, a double shot of tequila on ice as a margarita), so we weren’t expecting much. we ordered mexican tapas-like “street food”, tortillas with guac, and margaritas for our late lunch. and what a pleasant surprise! the food was flavourful and fresh and even pretty authentic. the sauces were balanced with just the right amount of heat, the guacamole had no cream in it, just chunky avo, tomato, onion and a hint of cilantro. and the margarita… all i can say is i had resigned myself to throwing £5 down the drain when i ordered it, but it was easily the best margarita i’ve had in the u.k. – and better than many i’ve had in the states. liquid gold it was, and we savoured every last drop. to top it off, it was all very reasonably priced (can you say free tortilla chip refills?) the only niggle was the service, which could’ve been much better (er, like bringing the appetizers and drinks *before* the food, not 10 minutes after). and even with that, it was a veritable gem of a find.

a few photos of the day w/ stacey.

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some days i just miss my friends back in the u.s. so terribly.

alex and mike came through london this weekend, so last night j and i went to hang out with them at their hotel. we feasted on indian food, then, after the kids were in bed, sucked down several bottles of wine and just talked. and talked and talked. we talked about travelling and politics and second-vs.-third wave feminism and city culture and school systems and chavez and punishment-vs.-rehabilitation.

and it’s not so much that we had great conversation – it’s that they’re the kind of friends where great conversation is effortless. where there’s that intangible connection that comes from being on the same wavelength. where deep affection springs from shared perspective and understanding. get-togethers with them are like a really great date, where you find yourself wanting to be around them more often.

they’re intelligent, adventurous, socially conscious, politically liberal, hilariously funny, and endearingly self-deprecating. they also happen to have two of the most precocious and genuinely engaging kids i know. alex and i took them to the natural history museum today and they were just so cool.

i love ‘em to bits and wish they weren’t a continent away.

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oh happy day! i’m going to see wilco at the brixton academy in november!

because every girl loves a little electro-experimental lo-fi alt-country twang.

(this *almost* makes up for the fact that i’m going to miss modest mouse while i’m out of the country.)

a few of my favourites:

wilco – jesus, etc.

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wilco – handshake drugs

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wilco – say you miss me

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wilco – company in my back

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wilco – heavy metal drummer

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“and, on
the table, at the midpoint
of summer,
the tomato,
star of earth, recurrent
and fertile
star,
displays
its convolutions,
its canals,
its remarkable amplitude
and abundance,
no pit,
no husk,
no leaves or thorns,
the tomato offers
its gift
of fiery color
and cool completeness.”

pablo neruda – from “ode to tomatoes”

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the rugby world cup is just around the corner! believe it or not, i’m excited.

did you know the u.s. has an international rugby team? did you know they actually qualified for the world cup? neither did i until four years ago.

rugby is a big sport in much of the world, and particularly in commonwealth countries, so i’ve been learning as i go along. (and no matter what any rugby enthusiast would want you to believe, it’s really not all that dissimilar from american gridiron football. that kind of talk is considered heresy in these parts, but it’s true nonetheless, and i should know.)

england are the reigning world champions, and there was much craziness and celebrating back in 2003 when they won. south africa and australia are always serious contenders for the crown, and new zealand is the bookies’ perennial heavyweight favourite to walk away with the cup. so, yeah – some serious rivalry is to be expected in these heavily antipodean parts of south london, and the pubs are guaranteed to be chokka.

i, of course, will be pulling for the americans, though i admit i can’t get my hopes up too high when i look at the pool we’re in. i mean, we might have an outside shot against samoa or tonga if their team gets food poisoning (those are some *big* teams and we’re 2:1 underdogs), but we really haven’t got a prayer against south africa or england. we’re given similar odds to romania, namibia, georgia and japan. i mean, you don’t have to know much about rugby to know that the romanians are probably not considered a dominant team. i may be a fan, but i’m also a realist.

the u.s. face off against england in the first game of our pool on 8th september, and though i’ll actually be stateside that day and have the time difference in my favour, i doubt it’ll be easy to find on television. i doubt many people in the u.s. know or care that we have a rugby team, or that there’s a world cup on at all – while football/soccer is catching on slowly, i think rugby-fever is still several years away from hitting american shores. which is a shame, really. rugby is an intense, fast-paced, physical game to watch… and we’re not half bad at it.

international marital relations will also be tested in the jen and jonno household on 30th september when the u.s. face south africa in what is sure to be a red, white and blue bloodbath. showdown!! mark your calendars.

jimmy cliff – the harder they come

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as much as i am an avid devotee of the dunks, i’m not sure how i feel about dunkin’ donuts coffee being sold in supermarkets. something about that just seems… wrong.

besides, it doesn’t help *me* out any now, does it? like, if they said they were going to start stocking dunkin’ donuts coffee in my local tescos, then i’d be all for it.

priorities, people. priorities.

otis reading – cigarettes and coffee

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lovely weekend camping in the new forest with chris, tonia, (and jude!), kerryn and tracey. after a really crap week, i was looking forward to this mini-getaway.

it didn’t get off to the most auspicious start, however, when we didn’t end up leaving on friday evening as planned. making the most of a bad situation, however, we went to the cinema to see “transformers” which (aside from grossly oversexualising the teenage female lead and being an unapologetically pro-military propaganda piece) was a delightfully engaging and enjoyable piece of fluff.

early saturday morning we headed down and met up with chris and ton, who’d arrived the night before, just in time for a big brunch barbeque and the marginally appropriate cocktail hour of eleven. we stuffed ourselves silly, took a short rest, and decided to head into the forest for a brisk constitutional.

and, in spite of the fact that the new forest is fully pathed, signposted, and the size of a large postage stamp, we got lost. probably the only people in the history of the new forest to ever achieve such an ignominious accomplishment. we wandered for three and a half hours – at first content merely to meander, after an hour or two mildly wondering when we would emerge someplace recognisable, and finally trudging along on the brink of hysteria until we stumbled across some hikers with a map.

finally, blissfully, we popped out in the village of brockenhurst where we immediately sought refuge in a pub. rehydrated and refreshed, we headed off again, and eventually dragged ourselves back to the campsite at dusk, a full 7 hours later, only to discover the wild donkeys had attempted to break into our tents in our absence. as the sun dropped, so did the temperature, until we were shivering with the chill, but we bundled up and sat by the fire, drinking beers and craning our necks to watch the early part of the meteor showers.

we were awakened this morning to the pre-dawn cry of “moo cows!” by the early-rising jude, and breakfasted on tea, rusks and muffins. as we were rousing ourselves, however, the sky darken and began to rain, necessitating an early pack-up and departure. instead, we headed for the nearby coast, where we strolled on the beach, walked out to hurst castle, and lounged in the sunlight, catching the ferry back to our cars, where we piled in and headed home.

a weekend full of unexpectedly delightful surprises. more photos here.

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and after all that… they’ve denied my citizenship application.

they “normally disregard” absences of up to 180 days in the previous 12 months for applicants married to british citizens, (provided you’ve shown substantial ties to the uk otherwise – i.e. job, bank accounts, etc.)

i was absent for 182 days, and while they “have discretion to waive absences in excess of the permitted maximum”, they are “not prepared to do so in this particular case”.

needless to say, i’m gutted. i was *so* ready for this whole rigamarole to be over. i feel like the last four years, all i’ve done is worry about bloody immigration requirements. organising papers and filling out forms and paying money and jumping through hoops and having to ask which immigration queue to go through and being nervous and answering questions at the fucking border every time i come and go about the one stupid time i was refused entry.

and i got my hopes up and thought i’d finally done enough to be done. i wanted so very badly to be done. so badly. i wanted this weight off so badly. it’s so stupid, but i can’t seem to even stop crying over it.

and instead, i have to do it all. over. again.

i can’t bear the thought right now.

which i just perfect, since i can’t even reapply until october anyway. another £600. another application with forms and copies and signatures and grovelling. another 4+ months of watching the post. waiting.

waiting for it all to be done.

fuck.

zero 7 – in the waiting line

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fugazi – waiting room

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woke up to this travesty that got my blood boiling this morning:

barry bonds breaks hank aaron’s record

what a farce. and i am *angry* – not at barry bonds, but that the people who matter have knowingly allowed this record to be tainted, allowed the sport to be tainted in this indelible way. who stood there like ostriches, and let it happen.

this was, of course, a long time in coming – anyone who watched baseball’s last home run chase in 1998 knew the record was soaked in steroids.

the difference is, they had the chance to put this one right. the difference is, this record is unlikely to ever be surpassed – people just don’t have 20+ year careers anymore. the difference is, this equates hank aaron’s lifetime of dedication and craft – all that is good and noble about the sport – with something mean and cheap and dirty.

that everyone know’s bonds is a cheat, just adds insult to injury. because it’s the generations of fans who care about the game who’ve been cheated – they’ve been handed tarnished fools gold and expected to show veneration. it’s a shabby imitation of achievement, and it makes a mockery of whatever pretext of purity the sport had left.

and the league have allowed it to happen, in deliberate, willful ignorance of what every baseball fan knows to be true – that record does not belong to bonds. that record rightly belongs to the fans who make the game possible – and they’re angry that what has long been lauded as the most hallowed record in american sports history, has been allowed to be defamed in this shameful deceit.

let’s lay the blame squarely where it belongs – at the feet of the commissioners and vips who’s sole job it is to elevate the sport to the best it can be.

the biggest, most blatant asterisk of all has just headed into the hall of fame – and they let it happen.

pretty girls make graves – all medicated geniuses

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bonds, baseball, home run record

so i bought my fancy camera from amazon.co.uk on thursday. it arrived on saturday. on sunday i discovered something was wrong with it. on monday i sent them an email. tuesday morning i had a replacement in my hands.

not too shabby.

more playing around… (yes, i realise these are interesting to no one but me… but j won’t let me near him with the camera again )

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i discovered just this evening that astroland at coney island is closing down at the end of this summer. the property has been sold to be developed into luxury high-rises and shopping, a casualty of the gentrification the area has been experiencing recently

hearing the news, a wave of sadness washed over me – that desolate, bereft feeling you get when something precious to memory has been lost forever. although i haven’t lived there in more than ten years, i still consider myself to be, at heart, a brooklyn girl. and there is nothing more quintessentially brooklyn than coney island.

living in the heart of the city, tangled deep in the web of subway lines and congested overpasses, when the heat becomes an unbearable shimmering blanket hanging over everything, you head for the beach. the well-heeled head for the beaches of the hamptons, and the masses take the subway to coney island.

getting off at the end of the F train, it hits you immediately. the long ramp out lined with souvenir vendors selling plastic tack and stuffed animals. the cloying smell of hot syrup as bits of escaped sugary fluff float about like pollen. the omnipresent sizzle of italian sausages and onions on a flat grill. it’s easy to see the tattered edges of a faded glory – seediness has crept in. the music is too loud, the lights too gaudy, gamesmen hawking in that nasal new yawk accent. it’s hard at first glance to see the appeal. the standard amusement rides are nothing special – a himalaya, go karts, zipper. others are relics of a bygone age: the boardwalk freak show, the parachute drop which closed years ago but still towers above like a decrepit memorial. still, there are some attractions that the newer, shinier rides will never be able to hold a candle to, like the ferris wheel with its free-sliding carriages… and of course, the cyclone, which remains one of america’s scariest rollercoaster by virtue of inducing the feeling that at any second you might fly out from underneath the old-style safety bar and plummet to the tracks below.

after a few bone-jarring rides, and a lunch of sweaty hot dogs and beer, everyone heads for the boardwalk. the boardwalk benches long since comandeered by eccentric fixtures with facial tattoos or mental illness. the beach crowded with throngs of young families and their strollers, along with a contingent of old world russian women and men who swim in their dingy cotton underwear and tan their considerable leathery bellies.

you’d be forgiven for thinking it doesn’t sound like anything particularly special. but coney island is a deep, rich part of new york city history and character. it’s romantic and eclectic and a fixture of summer. it’s a microcosm of brooklyn, and even new york itself – a living tribute to the past, woven through the stories of generations of families. the backdrop for years of engagement proposals, teenage group outings and family vacations. it’s a relic of previous eras that somehow manages to remain relevant today. and if you can see past the cheap plastic prizes, the scruffy paintjobs, and the deep fried food stalls, if you just squint a little and take a deep whiff of popcorn… you can almost see the ghosts of girls wearing poodle skirts and swaggering boys in jackets lining up for the cyclone.

coney island is part of any brooklynites soul, and it’s a sad, sad day when pieces of your soul are sold to property developers for sea-front condominiums.

(courtesy of wally g)

(courtesy of jgmundie)

(courtesy of jgmundie)

(courtesy of jeanettics)

(courtesy of drbrian)

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new camera!

tester shots – very pleased.

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this is zeke cleaning himself

this is jonno imitating zeke cleaning himself

(argh!! photo removed due to threat of marital row, though to be fair i *did* tell him i wouldn’t blog it. he really should know by now that i am a shameless liar…)

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“it ain’t pretty”

via indexed

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so i bet you’re all wondering, “what ever happened to that citizenship lark?”

bloody good question, i might add.

well, so it would seem that there were a *lot* of applications submitted before the deadline for the fee increases, and mine was one of zillions. so i submitted it back at the end of march, finally got acknowledgement that they’d received it the first week of may… and have been trying to put it out of my mind ever since, with little to no success.

three months seems to be my limit because by monday i just couldn’t take it any more. so i rang up the home office’s nationality hotline, who helpfully told me that they’d just made a decision on my application, and that i should be hearing in a few days. they *unhelpfully* were unable to give me any hints as to what that decision might be.

and of course, with the rolling royal mail strikes and ensuing postal backlog (which could take weeks to clear), i’ll be lucky to get anything before i leave for my trip to the states.

i wish i’d never even called and just continued on in blissful ignorance! this must be god’s way of torturing me.

pj harvey – hardly wait

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